Hail to the King
by TheOtherWillow
Summary: Complete. Antarian laws of succession are very specific about what happens when the King dies. Can Michael survive not only being crowned upon Max’s death, but having to marry his Queen as well? MichaelLiz pairing
1. Chapter 1: Michael Begins

Title: Hail to the King

Author: TheOtherWillow

Summary: Antarian laws of succession are very specific about what happens when the King dies. Can Michael survive not only being crowned upon Max's death, but having to marry his Queen as well?

Rating: T for language.

Disclaimer: Do you recognize it? Then it's so not mine. Please don't sue me, all I have to lose is my beloved laptop.

Note: I can't get this idea out of my head. I had to write it so it would leave me the hell alone. Sorry if this seems choppy; this thing wanted to be a multi-part epic so bad but I already have to of those in progress, so I had to muscle it into a smaller format. Definitely gonna try and do this in five parts or less. God help me, please less!

Hail to the King

I can't fucking believe it.

Fifteen long years spent fighting to liberate our planet and our people and what happens? No sooner do we manage to kick Khivar's scaly ass and finally see Max crowned does good ol'King Nothing get himself killed in the Antarian version of a car crash. It's such a damned ignoble way to go. Everyone dies, there's no escaping that, but after surviving more than a decade of revolution we all expected to be taken out in battle, or hell, even an assassination. Not victim to some stupid joy-riding kid who didn't know how to drive his daddy's space cruiser.

Look, don't think I'm not devastated by Max's death. Blood or not, he's family. The only one I've ever known, and these years spent liberating Antar had really drawn us all together. Forged us into a family in every way that matters. I'm just so fucking angry. He can't really be gone. What are we going to do with out him?

What am I gonna do without my **_brother_**?

Time doesn't stop just because we're grieving and Antarian gods must have a wicked sense of humor because Isabel's been rendered ineligible for coronation by Vilondra's betrayal. According to this planet's wacked out laws of succession, unless Max and Tess's son is found with in the next two galactic standard days (which is physically impossible; without the granolith, traveling to earth takes two years sub-light travel), I'm next in line to rule. Who the hell thought that would be a good idea?

Sure, I could turn it down. But then we're back to square one with the entire planet embroiled in a nasty civil war trying to decide who gets to sit on the throne. While I think Is would be a way better choice for the job, I'm not about to let my people suffer just because I don't think I'll be any good at it. At least I won't be alone. Liz was already the one doing the actual ruling while she was married to Max, I'm sure she'll do the same thing married to me.

Oh, wait. Didn't mention that part yet, did I?

Of course it's not just the throne. Because Max died without an heir, if I don't marry Liz then she's technically no longer a Citizen of Antar. And let me tell ya; non-citizens? They don't come here without a _damn_ good reason. Hell, that's why Isabel and Kyle got married within three days of stepping off the ship. Though it's called life-bonding here instead. Whatever. For such a supposedly enlightened race of beings, my people have some seriously barbaric laws. Slavery is only nominally illegal, and anyone who isn't a Citizen is fair game. One of the first things Max did was outlaw the import of non-citizens, but we still have problems with smugglers bringing shipments in to the colony moons. There are a lot of Antarians who will pay enormous amounts of money for non-citizen "aides," as they're called. I don't care what word you slap on the concept, the only one that fits is **_slave_**. Ironic, how universal some things are: Human. Utaran. Antarian. Jojwar. Doesn't matter. Where there's that kind of money to be made, there'll be someone willing to break the law to get it.

And Liz? She'd be worth more cash than some planets see in a year. Quite literally a King's ransom. Or should that be a Queen's? Among the beings in this solar system, she's revered as exceptional. Pure blooded human and a beautiful woman. Hybrid powers. Former General. Queen. Yeah, you heard me right: General. Weren't you listening? Fifteen years, you dogs. What, you thought she sat around crocheting? Bullshit. We all did our part and Liz-the-strategist is a glory to behold. Some of the greatest victories of the war were won with us fighting side by side. On the battlefield or at the planning board, there's no one I trust to watch my back like Elizabeth Evans.

Though I suppose it's going to be Elizabeth Guerin now. I wonder if she'll even want to take my name. Not that we've had a chance to discuss it. Technically, we're not even engaged yet. There's a banquet tonight for us to publicly announce our betrothal, but I haven't even seen the woman since Max's funeral. For all I know, this is just some scheme Larek and Isabel cooked up; I don't have any proof that Liz even _knows_ about this, much less agreed to it.

Fuck. Why hadn't I considered that? Those two are just shady enough to have masterminded a plan like this. Great. I've managed to freak myself out, but I'm not about to let them spring this on Liz. Now I've got to find some way to circumvent a palace full of servants, court toadies, guards, nobles, and dignitaries to make it to the Queen's Chambers, technically the most heavily defended corner of this planet at the moment, all without being detected.

Oh, yeah. Piece of cake.


	2. Chapter 2: Liz's Turn

Part Two: Liz's Turn

_Note: Here's for all the reviewers who told me they welcomed a change from reading doormat Liz. Ladies and Gents, allow me to introduce you to Queen Elizabeth of Antar…_

"Elt'Siar, see that I remain undisturbed," I command as she clears away the remains of lunch.

"Yes, My Queen," she bobs her head in compliance and ushers herself out the door as soon as I give my leave.

My voice sounds worn and flat even to my ears, and I can't help but pray the willowy blue girl is able stem the ever-growing tide of supplicants that darken my door. Isabel left mere minutes ago, and the thoughts that remain behind her are a dull roar pounding behind my eyes.

Though it wasn't as if I didn't know this was coming.

Max was always surprisingly lackadaisical about doing research, but I've never been comfortable going into any situation blind. I have made it my business to know, _intimately_, the laws, regulations, customs, and traditions of the people I am expected to lead. If only our efforts to stamp out socially acceptable slavery had been half as successful! Then maybe I wouldn't have had to endure the awkward lunch Isabel and I had just slogged through. The purpose behind her visit was of no surprise to me, I'd come to the same conclusions myself: Lose the crown and live in terror of being kidnapped and sold into slavery, or remarry as soon as possible. I just didn't expect her timetable.

_Announce our engagement tonight at the banquet?! Marry in two days at Michael's Coronation Ceremony!!!_

Quite the aggressive schedule, and all without once having so much as spoken to my would-be betrothed. As I sit and massage my now-throbbing temples, I wonder why she and Larek have gone to such lengths to hide their plans from me. I get so tired of having to examine the motivations of everyone around me for political intrigue, I try to avoid it as much as possible with the small group I consider family. It didn't even occur to me to add Izzy to the list of people I scrutinize until now.

Closing my eyes, I mentally replay our earlier conversation, looking for some clue as to the roots of her uncharacteristic behavior. I review the exchange three times in my head before I finally catch it: Whenever she brought Michael up as being the best choice for me to marry, she twitched defensively, almost as if she were preparing herself for me to stand up and start screeching at her for even suggesting him.

My eyes flutter open and I blink in perplexity under the harsh lights of my study. I ponder for a long minute why Isabel had been expecting such a negative response from me, especially when I told her that I'd come to the same conclusions she had, before I recognize one very simple truth:

She doesn't realize that Michael and I are friends.

Isabel didn't spend her time during the Revolution on the battlefield. She was our diplomat, our mediator. She served by representing us at treaty negotiations and peace talks in climate controlled bunkers. She doesn't know about the bond formed in endless strategy meetings spent trying to worm our way into the enemy's psyche to more effectively plan our attacks. She has no comprehension of the shared hell found in the ice fields around Raynor IV, or the trenches of Coria. She only sees Michael and I as we interact now, politely formal and distant at functions of state or political events. She keeps this outdated image in her head of who we were at 17; a picture that stays forever frozen in that awkward adolescent faze of being unable to deal with one another outside of sarcastic jabs and biting commentary.

The Liz of 2001, I think she may have exploded the way Isabel expected. But the Liz of 2017? She remembers looking up from the locked jaws of a Terlian Pit trap to see Michael Guerin standing above her, holding off half an enemy platoon by himself with a tri-phasic canon, so the medics would have time to cut her free. She knows what it's like to be the one to dig shrapnel out of that same man's shoulder as they sit crouched, huddled together for warmth, exhausted and dirty in a trench outside the capitol as their respective battalions of troops awaited Max's command to begin the final gruesome battle for independence.

I wish Izzy would have just said something to me; I could have eased her fears. I would have told her about companionable nights spent in alien cantinas, of quiet times discussing home and trivialities as all soldiers do when the road is long and the orders uncertain. I could have told her of joy and pain, laughter and tears – all earned and spent by Michael's side. Maria DeLuca may have been my closest friend in terms of years, but Michael Guerin has her beat by a lifetime's worth of miles. I shake my head ruefully. Hell, if the little pixie blonde could see me now, she might not even recognize the woman I've become. Michael can draw you a roadmap of how I got here.

My heart breaks at the thought of being married to anyone besides Max. From the day I was shot in the Crashdown, he has been it for me. I have loved my husband with a single minded dedication that the years have failed to dull, and his senseless loss has left me shattered and empty inside. Honestly, if it had been any man _other_ than Michael that they were suggesting I marry, I might have risked stealing a Jump Ship to make a run for Earth. It's only the knowledge that it _is_ Michael, the one person left in the galaxy who's seen me in every incarnation I have ever possessed and still thinks of me as simply Liz, that's kept me from making a break for it.

Michael needs me. And I need him. In one of his more Zen moments, Kyle once compared Michael and I to wolves. We hunt together. We protect our family. We are loyal to the death. I have never thought of Michael in the guise of a life partner before, but this damnable situation has forced me to consider it. I have to admit, I think we could be a good match. While us marrying was not something I could ever have conceived of entering into the continuing evolution of our friendship, I know that once we make that commitment, we will never abandon one another. There's a warm security in the knowledge of such fidelity; even all these years later the memory of Max's dalliance with Tess still has the power to hurt me.

Crossing my chambers to the bedroom, I recline in exhaustion against my coverlet as I contemplate the one important variable missing from this equation: The man in question's acceptance of this outrageous plan. The air above me suddenly begins to shimmer and unexpectedly coalesces into a black clothed form that crashes into me once gravity reasserts itself on the re-solidified mass.

I snarl in indignation. A space fold jump! Into **MY** personal quarters?! Heads are going to roll over this! No one should be able to jump into this fold locked location without the access codes! I immediately begin to struggle against the creature whose weight holds me down. Launching it away from me with a savage kick to the stomach, I desperately hope it's an Utaran since they keep what passes for their nerve clusters there. Jab one in the belly and you'll put him out for days. The black figure crashes into the wall with a startled "Ooof!" but doesn't fall, so I roll out off the bed ready for battle. The combat knife I keep concealed in a protective sheath within the lining of my pillow is clutched reassuringly in my hand.

I lash out with a flurry of kicks, hoping to catch the being unaware, and am shocked to find him parrying all my blows. I fake high with a swipe of the knife, and while he moves to block my lunge I nail him with a knee to the groin. Not every race keeps their sex organs there, but there isn't a humanoid form in existence that isn't sensitive to a direct hit in that region. His hand tightens spasmodically around my wrist in a painful grip as he sinks to the ground biting back a whimper. I cry out in triumph as I wrench my hand free to raise the blade for a quick thrust. Before I can complete my move, the figure at my feet rips off his shielding hood to reveal a familiar face.

"Michael?" I gasp warily, reaching out with my mind to verify it's him before I drop my guard. Too many of our enemies can shapeshift to believe the proof of my eyes alone.

He half smiles, half grimaces as he opens a connection to me in return. I sag weakly in relief once I confirm it's him, and then immediately flush at the knowledge that I'd just kicked one of my best friends (and my intended groom) in the balls. My chagrin must filter through our fading connection, because he chuckles at me as he limps slowly over to gingerly sit on the edge of my bed.

"Remind me not to sneak up on you once we're married," he growls with a pained smirk. "You fight dirty."

I give an involuntary snort of laughter before I process what he's said. Well, that answers one of my questions at least: Michael knows about the plan.

Now, jokes aside, is he really willing to go through with it?


	3. Chapters 3 through 5 combined

**Michael's Back**

She's biting her lip as she watches me and it's almost nice to see she still has that old nervous habit. She carefully slides next to me on the bed and tucks the loose strands of chocolate hair behind her ear with a sigh. It's hard not to smile; she looks so young without the robes of state and ceremonial vestments of her office. I don't think I've seen her this way since our assault on the Capital. That was, what? Two years ago? Three?

Damn. Where the hell'd the time go?

She's talking to me softly, apologizing, but she shouldn't be sorry. I'm actually really proud of her – being Queen doesn't allow her much time in the Training Rings, but I'm there every day. I'm ranked pretty damn high on the standings list, and the fact that she managed to get the drop on me is something worth being proud of.

She's moved on to outlining Larek and Isabel's plan, but I'm not really paying attention. As she watches me with those wide, searching eyes of hers, it finally hits me: This woman is going to be my wife.

I never thought I'd marry anyone. Maria and I loved one another, but we would've killed each other in a year. When she announced she was staying on Earth with Billy, I was actually relieved. From what I understand, they're happily settled with a couple of kids. I'm glad. Family and stability were all Maria ever wanted, and I could never give her that. There was never anyone serious after her, but it's not like I've been a monk. Hell, it's been fifteen years! I just never found anyone I'd even considered building a life with.

Until now.

I'm shocked as hell to realize how _**right**_ the thought of Liz as my wife feels. We haven't seen each other much in the last few years, but for most of the decade before that we were a team. Isabel handled negotiations, Max did the overall planning and politicking, but Liz and I? We _**were**_ the war. Battlefield strategy, leading attacks and training the troops, supplies, transport – we handled it all together. Not bad for a couple of kids who used to work a greasy spoon, huh?

The bottom line is, that partnership we shared tells me everything I need to know about what being married to her will be like. We'll butt heads like we always do, but she'll let me blow a few things up to calm down before forcing me to sit down and look at the options with her. I'll ensure she remembers to eat when she's caught up in her latest project and make her calm down when she's worried herself into a panic. There's an ebb and flow to our dynamic, and the give and take is what made us effective. It's what will make our marriage work.

She's still talking, going over the salient points and the pros versus the cons of various permeations of the plan, but all I can concentrate on is the fact that she's sitting so close to me that I can smell the warm, almost vanilla orchid, smell of the local perfume she prefers. The heat of her body is seeping through the thin cloth of my shirt and I'm consciously aware for the first time of how beautiful she is.

From as far back as I can remember, Liz has belonged to Max. Before she even knew who he was, in my eyes she was his because she was all he talked about. I put her in a box labeled with his name in the back of my mind and never stopped to examine it too closely. This may be the first time in my life that I've looked at her with clear, unclouded eyes and actually seen her without any preconceptions.

She's lovely.

I don't know why this is such an epiphany. It's not like I didn't think she was pretty before, but now it hits me like a ton of bricks. Elizabeth Evans is lovely. Waist length espresso hair flows around smooth honeyed skin and bright cinnamon brown eyes. The line of her nose and the swell of her cheekbones entrance me. Her plump lips draw my eyes, and she's broken off what she was saying under the weight of my stare.

"Michael?" She asks almost tentatively, and I watch spellbound as her mouth and tongue wrap themselves around my name.

It's too soon, I shouldn't be thinking this way, but I can't help but fixate on the thought that very soon those lips will belong to me. If she could read my mind, Liz'd give me hell for my caveman thinking, but I've realized there's a part of me that wants her to be mine. That deep down has always wanted it, and out of loyalty to Max hid that traitorous yearning behind a wall of indifference. I'd done such a good job ignoring my desire that I'd fooled myself too, but the time for such self-deception is long past.

"The Council's going to push for us to have kids as soon as possible," I say finally in answer to her query. She gasps as she realizes the implications of what I'm saying. We both know it's too dangerous to have the Antarian crown sit without an heir, but to make ours a real marriage? Especially so soon after the loss of Max. It's one thing to contemplate a partnership in caring for our people, but to actually have her as my wife and me as her husband in every sense of the words is something outside of what either of us had considered. Of course there are other options, especially in an advanced society like ours, but would artificially producing an heir really be preferable in her mind to building a real life with me? I feel a little sick at the thought of my child being born like I was, a sterile processing of cells and genetics to produce an end result. There's no love in that, no family. I'd never really thought about kids before, but I know instinctively that I want better for my children.

I shouldn't push this now, but I have to know. The softening in her dark eyes as she turns to me tells me she understands what I'm really saying, even if I can't say the words aloud:

Do you want all of me?

What I'm asking isn't fair, and it isn't right, coming so soon on the heels of her husband's death. But I need to know as much as I want it. And I'm surprised by how badly I want her answer to be yes. For once in my life, I want someone to choose me. No, not someone. I want _Liz_ to choose me. Not because she has to, not because there are no other options, but because she wants to. Because she wants me.

God, I though Hank beat the urge to hope out of me years ago, but apparently I was wrong because despite all rational expectation I can't shake the feeling that she won't let me down. That Liz will rise to my unspoken challenge and meet me head on like she always does. It would take a miracle in this particular case, but I can't stand to be wrong.

I want the miracle.

**Liz Decides**

He's not listening to me. I can always tell when he gets that glossy look in his eyes that he's a million miles away. Normally, I'd snap his attention back on target, but right now I'm actually glad he's zoning because I'm babbling.

I hate to babble.

I can't help it though. Having him so unexpectedly appear has thrown me off center, and I'm using the babbling as an opportunity to get myself on track. I'm sure I'm not saying anything that he hasn't already considered, so we can both afford to zone out for a little while. I just didn't expect it to affect me this way. It was so easy, sitting and discussing with Isabel, to consider this plan in an abstract kind of way. Being confronted with the physical actuality of Michael has forced me to look at things from the perspective of _something that is happening to me_ rather than _the most expedient solution_.

Not to say that I'm taking back any of the things I thought before. I still believe Michael and I will do well together, but sitting here _on my bed_ next to the man who will become my _husband_ lends a visceral reality to what was once a theoretical concept. And the way he keeps focusing on my lips is starting to drive me to distraction.

"Michael?" The weight of his stare is heavy, and it's all I can do to force his name out.

There's a long pause before he speaks. "The Council's going to push for us to have kids as soon as possible," he says eventually in a considering tone as he drags his gaze up to meet my eyes. His amber irises burn with an implicit challenge and I inhale sharply in surprise as I understand their message: He wants me to decide if we'll be married in more than name.

Communication with Michael has always been a dizzying dance of facial interpretation and reading between the lines. For the first time, I almost wish I wasn't quite so good at it. Damn him for putting this ball solely in my court! It's too soon! As if I'm ready to even CONSIDER the ramifications of what he's asking yet! He's watching me intently with a quiet sort of desperation, like his entire world hangs on my answer as I internally rage. It's his silent anxiety that breaks through the panicked haze of my recrimination.

I remind myself that I know Michael. He can be brash and quick to temper, but it's only because he hates dancing around the issue. Lay your cards on the table and let the chips fall, that's Michael's motto. If I say that I want to take a _scientific_ approach to children, then our marriage will be nothing more than a political façade and we'll be two friends that just happen to share genetic material with a couple of kids and rule an interplanetary alliance together. But is that what I really want? Is it what he wants?

There's a fierce hope shining in his eyes as I shift towards him on the bed, and I have my answer. I know I'm not ready for what he wants. I can't be yet, my heart is still broken from Max's death and healing will take time. But as I look up into the warm light of his eyes, I think a day will come when I will be ready. The tenseness leeches out of my muscles and I can feel my gaze soften at the realization. My hand slides up his chest and cups the nape of his neck, tilting his forehead down to press against mine. I find that I like the way his hands instinctively fall to my hips to steady me.

Leaning up slightly, I brush a kiss across his brow before pulling back to meet his eyes. "Someday," I promise solemnly, "you and I are going to make beautiful babies. But Larek and the rest of those Council jackals are just going to have to wait until _**we**_ decide we're ready."

The smile that blooms across his face is worth all the Council meetings we're going to have to sit through to justify our decision.

**Epilogue**

It's been a long damn day. Liz is beside me, her hair a tangled halo framing her head. Puffy eyes and blotchy skin highlight how drained she is and it doesn't take a genius to tell that she's cranky and tired and miserable. She'd hit me if I said this out loud, but ironically, in my eyes she's never been more beautiful.

I've apparently broken about sixteen different planetary traditions by being in here, but they can all fuck off. We're a team and I'll be damned if I stand back and leave her to face this battle alone. Birth is such a traumatic bodily event that not even Antarian healers and super drugs can make it entirely pain free. I console myself with the thought that at least it went quicker here than it would have on Earth.

Liz slumps against my shoulder as I give her a one-armed hug. Brushing the matted hair away from her face, I murmur soothingly against her scalp, "You did good, baby. I'm so proud of you…"

"Fuck off, Michael," she grumbles as she buries her face against my neck. "You're never touching me again." Her voice is evening out with every word, a legacy of medicine working its way through her veins with each heartbeat. I chuckle quietly and refrain from pointing out that I'm touching her now. Huh. I guess being married for three years has taught me something after all.

Like the value of keeping comments that would get me castrated by my strung out wife to myself.

A nervous shuffling sound at the foot of the bed draws my attention to the awaiting attendant, shifting uncertainly at the thought of interrupting the King and Queen during what appears to be a tender moment. Look up from the crown of my wife's hair, I wave the girl forward encouragingly. With a smile of thanks, I ease the squirming bundle from her grip. Liz perks up at our daughter's gurgling and I carefully slide my precious cargo into her waiting arms. Our little one is still red, but I can see elements of the two of us written in the lines of her face and the small tuft of dirty blond hair on top of her head. I can't wait to see what color her eyes are. Nudging my wife playfully, Liz looks up at me with a watery smile. "You were right," I tell her as I press a soft kiss against our child's head, "We do make beautiful babies."

Her smile widens as she draws me to her. "Love you, Michael," she whispers against my mouth as I bend to kiss her.

"Ditto," I say with a smirk as I pull back and she laughs. The sound startles Alexia, and Liz soothes her with an old Earth lullaby as I watch the two most precious jewels of my kingdom.

I keep wanting to pinch myself to prove I'm not dreaming, I never would have believed that we'd end up here. There's been so much that life had denied me. So many things that I dreamt about while growing up in Hank's trailer. Things I thought I wanted, that I told myself I had to have in order to be happy. But I was wrong about all of them…

The only miracle I'll ever need is right here.

Fini.


End file.
